


i ain't guilty (it's a musical transaction)

by buhnebeest



Category: Mass Effect
Genre: Crew Feels, Dancing, Dirty Dancing, F/M, Public Sex, Shenanigans
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-18
Updated: 2014-10-18
Packaged: 2018-02-21 16:14:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,538
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2474429
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/buhnebeest/pseuds/buhnebeest
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>That’s different, though. When Commander Shepard asks you if you want to join her on the away team, you don’t just say ‘no’. You say ‘yes, ma’am, please and thank you’ and mod the shit out of your armor, because chances are you’re going to get your ass shot at by Cerberus or Reaper spawn or fucking baby rachni in the very near future.</p>
            </blockquote>





	i ain't guilty (it's a musical transaction)

**Author's Note:**

> Based on [this prompt](http://masseffectkink.livejournal.com/4037.html?thread=11945669#t11945669): dirty dancing. Yesss.

  

_Purgatory_ is not really James’s favorite club on the Citadel. The Zakera wards have some good ones, and the _New Vegas_ is a nice joint out by the market district if you’re into ‘five-shots-a-credit’ deals. But P _urgatory_ is closest to Dock 42, and right now that’s all he really cares about. He’s managed to drag Esteban out from under his engine and Joker from the cockpit, and to be honest those achievements alone have earned him a goddamn drink. 

“Workaholics, the both of you,” he complains, shaking his head sadly.

Joker rolls his eyes. “Says this guy, who’s gone on five missions in the past _week_.”

That’s different, though. When Commander Shepard asks you if you want to join her on the away team, you don’t just say ‘no’. You say ‘yes, ma’am, please and thank you’ and mod the shit out of your armor, because chances are you’re going to get your ass shot at by Cerberus or Reaper spawn or fucking baby rachni in the very near future.

Esteban sips innocently at his tequila. “Not to mention all that working out he’s doing in case Shepard comes by the shuttle bay again.”

Joker sniggers. “Or scribbling ‘Mr. Commander Shepard’ all over his mission reports.”

“Or picking out the tightest of T-shirts for when Shepard wants to spar.”

“Or—”

“Hey, who’re you trying to heckle, chulos!” James exclaims, grinning. “Just doing my part as a Normandy crew member. Keeping up morale.”

“Something’s up, all right,” Joker mumbles. Esteban bursts out laughing. James drags a hand over his (heated) face and trudges off to the bar for another round of shots. When he gets back, Joker and Esteban have moved on to their usual argument about which shuttle has the best flight controls. James is not allowed to join in on this argument, because James ‘is a terrible pilot’ and ‘destroys shuttles by crashing them into evil Cerberus bots like a giant idiot’. Whatever. If it doesn't come with a turret he’s not interested anyway.

It’s enough to just sit for a while. _Purgatory_ isn’t his favorite bar, but at least he’s not stuck up there on the Presidium, where it’s too peaceful and clean and bright. Not to mention: full of politicians. No thanks. James’d rather pass and slum it in mediocre clubs with migraine-inducing color schemes and a tacky playlist.

“Hey, check it out,” Esteban says, poking James in the shoulder. James looks around to follow his gaze. And abruptly wishes he hadn’t.

“What,” he says, staring at the galaxy’s most emotionally scarring scenario, “the hell am I looking at?”

Joker laughs and claps him on the shoulder. “That is Shepard dancing.”

“No way.”

“Yes way.”

James downs his own drink for strength, because there in the middle of the dance floor is Shepard, and she is, in the broadest possible terms, ‘dancing’.

“But she’s so…” _graceful_ , he wants to say, but there’s no way that word and Shepard can be used in the same sentence anymore. James sees her in combat a _lot_ , and he’d always kind of assumed that someone that skilled and lethal would be completely in tune with their body. Hell, she can floor guys twice her size in hand-to-hand – including yours truly – and make it look effortless, artful. Yet here she is, completely offbeat and cringe worthily awkward.

“Look at the illusion shattering.”

“I almost feel kind of bad.”

“This is a tragedy,” James mutters, ignoring the peanut gallery. “Earth’s most respected hero dances like a dorky fourteen-year-old boy.”

“Don’t look at me, man.” Joker shrugs. “She’s always been like this. I can’t believe you haven’t seen any of the vids, it’s all over the extranet.”

“Oh yeah: the _Spectre Shuffle_. I’ve seen that.”

James stares at Esteban, betrayed. “And you didn’t show me!”

“Sorry?”

“Dios mio, give me strength,” James says, and turns back to look at Shepard. It’s disturbingly fascinating, like witnessing a traffic accident or watching a turian trying to eat noodles with chopsticks. It’s the mental disconnect, maybe, of seeing someone that hot – dressed in a fucking skin-tight dress and strappy heels, somebody shoot him – completely fail to be sexy.

Before he’s actually consciously made the decision, James is on his feet.

“I’m just gonna…” he says, gesturing vaguely, taking off.

“Good luck, man!” Joker calls after him. “You’re gonna need it!”

 

*****

  

“James!” Shepard smiles wide when she notices him, almost startlingly so. Her cheeks are flushed from alcohol, and there’s something playful in her grin, well beyond the tolerant bemusement he can usually elicit from her with a well-placed flirtation. James ignores the heat in his own cheeks and nods a greeting.

“Commander. I thought you were seeing the Council?”

“I was.” Shepard pulls a face. “Turns out those meetings are a lot shorter now that everybody’s suddenly listening to what I have to say. So I decided to go dancing.”

James clears his throat, casual as you please. “Oh, is that what you were doing?”

Watching Shepard’s face crack into a grin does a lot to make up for the dancing, honestly.

“Story of my life,” she says, shaking her head ruefully. “You can put that on my tombstone. Here lies Commander Shepard: Alliance Marine, Council Spectre, intergalactic social worker, terrible dancer.”

“I’ll ask EDI to update your will, Commander,” he says dutifully, pretending to activate his omnitool. Shepard groans and punches him in the shoulder, then mock-winces and shakes out her fist. James grins.

“You got jokes tonight, Lola?”

“I guess I do.”

“Think you can joke and dance at the same time?" 

Shepard raises her eyebrows. “I thought I couldn’t dance?”

“You can with me,” James says, trying to ignore the nervous thumping his heart is doing. He’s suddenly all too aware that there’s a big difference between dancing with Shepard and actually _dancing_ with her. For one thing, if he ends up on the floor with a bloody nose this time, it will definitely mean he’s out of a job.

“Sure you can teach an old dog new tricks, Vega?” Shepard asks, smirking. “I’m told my problem is pretty serious.”

Yeah, and then some.

“Ay, Lola, you wound me,” James says, hand to his heart. “I could teach a _krogan h_ ow to dance. It’s all in the hips.” He swerves his hips in demonstration, throwing in a smooth Sinatra step-step-twirl for good measure. Shepard eyes him consideringly.

“All right then.” She steps in close, looping her arms around his neck. “So teach me.”

 

*****

 

 Shepard’s a quick study. 

Bass line thrilling along his spine, rhythm thrumming under his skin, and it feels like the air is too sweet to breathe, like his heart is beating too fast to curb this glut of sweat and touch and languid urgency. He doesn't remember how they got here, everything before this moment a hazy blur of laughter and flailing limbs and flirtation. Not that it matters, not that he cares about anything but this:

Shepard right here, clung to his body like molten gold.

He’s crowded in close behind her so he can guide her movements with his body, smooth roiling coils of his hips, swaying, whirling, twisting. He has his hands up high on her thighs, fingertips snagged on that smooth-soft skin where her dress has ridden up, completely drunk on the feel of her fingers gripping greedily at his forearms, a quiet demand that he keep his hands on her.

“Me vuelves loco, Lola,” he grinds out, grazing his lips along her bared throat. Her head’s lolled back against his shoulder, so he can hear her soft gulps of breath in his ear, tiny little sounds that he imagines coaxing into sighs and moans. He’s hard, of fucking course he is, how could he not be, with the generous swell of her ass grinding up against his cock and the taste of her skin tingling on his lips. He runs his hands up her body, fingers dragging along the strong muscles of her abs, covered only by the slick-tight material of her dress, and he thinks yearningly about ripping it off her, getting underneath. He wants to delve his fingers into the heat of her, shoulder his way between her thighs and taste her, anything, _anything_.

“Fuck, James,” Shepard husks, voice curling hoarsely around his name. “ _Fuck_.” 

Yeah. Yeah, that’s what he wants. She would let him; let him ruck up her shiny dress and fuck into her right here, even with the writhing wall of bodies around them a mere parody of privacy. She would tilt her hips – yeah, like this, rub herself back against him – and she would be so wet, so hot and snug inside, he just knows it.

Shepard drags one of his hands up and slowly sucks his thumb into her mouth.

“Oh God,” he groans, hips jerking helplessly. He buries his face in Shepard’s neck and thrusts once, twice, until he’s coming in his jeans, clutching her close. By the time he comes to enough to be functional, he finds Shepard slowly swaying to the music, leading him now, holding his arms cuddled to her waist.

“You’re offbeat,” James mumbles, unable to help it.

Shepard snorts, “Shut up, Vega,” and turns her head to kiss him.

 


End file.
